


The Phoney Fortune Teller

by maraudersaffair



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fake Psychic Draco Malfoy, Flirting, Fortune Teller Draco Malfoy, Fortune Telling, Gay Draco Malfoy, Gay Harry Potter, Getting Together, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Injury, M/M, Past Justin Finch-Fletchley/Harry Potter, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Secondary Theme: Book Fair, Suspicious Harry Potter, Unspeakable Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-10-26 01:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20733944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraudersaffair/pseuds/maraudersaffair
Summary: Draco makes a living as a phoney fortune teller by the Thames. He enjoys his job and his life proceeds as normal until one day his crystal ball shows him snogging Harry Potter.





	The Phoney Fortune Teller

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[31](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16er_sVwwFtbVQxtiFqHRWhw09kwNYhywsB-R48qtVPU/edit#): Draco makes a living as a fake psychic, selling people lies about the wonderful futures they're going to have (because it turns out that people pay a lot for that. In actuality, Draco has never had a vision or seen anything in his tea leaves or crystal ball, until one day his crystal ball shows him kissing his long-standing crush (and rival) Harry Potter.
> 
> **Career Theme**: Fake Psychic  
**Secondary Theme**: Book Fair - Unfogging the Future
> 
> A big thanks to my beta, L!

Draco was at work, again. But that was okay. Or, it was about to be okay.

His favourite part about working as a psychic: the storytelling. The truth was he didn’t have a mystic bone in his body. He wasn’t a seer. He was a con, a liar. He told people what they wanted to hear, and he did it with _style_.

He worked in a wagon in Muggle London, next to the Thames. The river liked to wink at him. They had a bond. Draco ate his lunch at its bank, and he allowed the water to kiss his fingertips and whisper secrets. 

His psychic wagon catered to Muggle tourists, but sometimes he got magical folk. He could lie to both. Witches and wizards were just as gullible as Muggles. 

He had a costume. He had a costume that relied on stereotypes. He wore a beaded turban with a feather. His suit was velvet green Victorian. He worked with a crystal ball that he spelled to glow blue when thinking, then purple and pink when deciding. 

His wagon was filled with dusty tomes and empty bird cages. Why empty? He didn’t know. He’d once seen it in a film, and that was that. He also had carpets, too many carpets, and he lit incense that tickled his nose and made him sleepy. 

He carried rose petals in his pockets and up his sleeves, and let them scatter the small circular table when gesturing. 

He wanted a black cat with eyes like a full moon, but he didn’t want to deal with its fluff. 

The storytelling. 

Currently, he faced an older man with a mustache like a cloud. The man had blood-stained eyes and hollowed cheeks. He looked ill. He looked heartbroken. 

Draco pressed his hands to his crystal ball. He let his eyes roll up and his lips part; he was gathering his story.

“You come from hardship, but someone helped you be reborn.”

The man hesitated. “Yes.”

“You love deeply, but you struggle to show it.”

“Yes.”

“You have lost someone close to you.”

The man leaned forward. “How did you know?”

“My crystal ball knows everything.”

The man covered his face. “I just loved her so much.”

“You don’t know what to do with that love. It’s too much.”

“It is,” he said wetly. 

“She has left you because you feel too deeply.”

“She said I struggled with _intimacy_.”

Draco nodded. “My crystal ball tells me you face a change, the trading of faces. You will learn how to show your feelings.”

The man dropped his hands. He looked excited. “Is she coming back? I need her. I can’t live without her.”

Draco pressed his palms more firmly against the ball. He closed his eyes and hummed. After a long, drawn out moment, he whispered, “Yes, she will return. She will return only when you have traded faces.”

The man sopped up his tears with a yellowing handkerchief. He was smiling. “I’m so relieved.”

“Our session has come to a close,” Draco said brightly. “It will be forty even. I take credit card.”

When the man had gone, Draco made some tea and sat back in his chair with a sigh. His head was sweaty and itchy. He took off the turban, which he’d purchased from a Halloween shop. He knew caricatures were wrong, but he always made more money when he wore it.

It was the end of his work day, and the sun was beginning to set. The walls of his wagon looked glossy and orange. He liked these moments the best. He liked sitting alone in his wagon, hidden from the world, drinking his fragrant chai. No one could reach him in here. 

Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall back. His cup, warm and damp, felt like a living thing in his palm. 

There was blinking. 

Confused, he opened his eyes, and gasped. It was the crystal ball. It was blinking like a Muggle strobe light. It was frightening, alarming. 

He leaned closer, his cup forgotten in his hand. He spilled his hot tea, and cursed. As he reached for his wand to clean up the mess, the strobing stopped. He peered into his crystal ball. Clouds of blue and grey whirl inside, like a storm, like something coming. He leaned closer until his nose almost touched the glass. 

The clouds cleared, and Harry Potter stood there. _Potter_, Draco thought.

Potter was in his Unspeakable robes. He was looking for something, craning his neck, muttering to himself. He looked nervous. 

When he caught sight of something or someone, his expression cleared. He smiled with all his teeth, and the smile reached his twinkling eyes. Draco had forgotten Potter could smile like that.

A tall blond man approached him. Potter wrapped his arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. Draco sputtered. _Potter’s bent?_

The man turned, and Draco almost fainted. It was him. Potter had kissed _him_. 

Draco staggered back, knocking over his chair, his trousers still dripping wet. The crystal ball had gone blank. He was afraid to approach it. 

He blinked furiously, trying to understand, trying not to be overwhelmed. Something had gone wrong. His magic had fucked with the ball and showed him one of his deepest desires. 

Or perhaps he’d seen a true prophecy. Perhaps spending so much time with a crystal ball had _made_ him into a seer. 

All he knew was that he had to find Potter.

*

Harry was running. It was life or death.

He was in the bowels of the London catacombs, and he was not about to let this arsehole get away. 

The floor was stone and slick, and the walls sweated river water. Harry had cast a non-slip spell on his boots, but he still skidded and slid. His ankles were going to hate him in the morning. 

A curse sliced through the air. Harry flung to the side, and the wall exploded above his head.

Bloody fucking hell. He needed back up. 

That was the thing about being an Unspeakable. He was always alone. 

“Surrender now and the Ministry will understand!” Harry yelled. 

The footsteps stopped. Harry raised his wand and inched closer. A few bulbs of light floated around him, but they weren’t enough to illuminate the end of the corridor. 

_He’s waiting for me_, Harry thought. 

“I just want to know your story,” Harry said. “I don’t care if you nicked all that jewellery.”

Silence. 

“I’m an understanding man. I just want to know the truth.”

“Sod off!”

Harry was hit in the shoulder by a stunner. He fell to the ground, cold grimy water drenching his back. He lay very still and listened to the man’s footsteps dash away. 

His arm was fucked. He could barely move it. 

_I should have just stayed an Auror_. He sat up, and winced. He was bleeding and he couldn’t feel the fingers of his wand hand. If he was still an Auror, he’d have a partner. He’d have bloody _direction_. 

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and stumbled to his feet. A moment later, he Disapparated.

*

At Grimmauld Place, he ripped off his robes and staggered to the toilet. He inspected the stunner wound in the tarnished mirror. There was magic burn and a lot of blood. He traced the wound with his wand, attempting to sniff out anything dangerous. Sometimes suspects liked to get creative with their stunners. Add a hidden curse. Something that buried deep inside and killed you the next day.

He didn’t detect anything abnormal. If Hermione was here, she’d drag him to St Mungo’s just to make sure. But it didn’t really matter if he lived or not. 

“Fucking hell,” Harry said, and healed his wound with a spell. He wasn’t suicidal. He was just horny. 

It’d been six months since he and Justin Finch-Fletchley broke up. _Six months_. Harry hadn’t shagged anyone since then. He didn’t know why. He’d liked Justin a lot, but their break up had been amicable, and it wasn’t like Harry pined for him. He was just waiting for the right person, someone who really got his blood racing. He was also working too damn much. 

He was full of dark thoughts and pent up desire. He needed a release; he needed a mate. Hermione and Ron were so busy with their children now.

He Summoned a bottle of whiskey and Transfigured the outside to a bottle of Muggle fizzy drink. He took a sip and sighed when he tasted whiskey. Sometimes he really mucked up that spell.

Settling down in front of his sooty fireplace, he Flooed his supervisor, Penelope Clearwater. They had gone to school together, though he’d only remembered her as Percy’s girlfriend. She was unmarried and deeply obsessed with her job. She was the only person he could depend on as an Unspeakable.

“Clearwater speaking,” she said, even though Harry could see her.

Harry took a long swallow of his whiskey. “The bugger got away.”

She frowned. “I thought you only intended to question him.”

“Well, he wasn’t willing to answer my questions. He ran into some bloody catacombs.”

“Merlin.”

“We don’t even know this bloke’s name, and you’ve got me chasing him in the dark.”

“You didn’t have to chase him. That wasn’t in the instructions.”

“He ran! Obviously he’s culpable in some way.”

“You know that’s not true. People run when they are scared.”

Harry breathed deeply. “Fine, right. I shouldn’t have chased after him.”

“Are you injured?”

“Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve taken care of it.”

“You should go to St Mungo’s to get checked out.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“It was standard protocol when you were an Auror. This shouldn’t be any different.”

“But it is different. There’s no protocol as an Unspeakable. Nothing’s written down.”

“We’ve never had an Unspeakable like you. We’re still trying to figure things out.”

“You said that a year ago. Let’s face it, the department doesn’t care about me.”

“We care about you. You’re Harry Potter! Of course we care.”

Harry blew out his cheeks. He was moody and frustrated and he wanted to _quit_. “Don’t expect me back in the office on Monday.”

“Go to St Mungo’s.”

“No.”

Penelope raised her chin. “I will tell.”

“Go right ahead.” He laughed and ended the Floo.

Grimmauld Place was silent. He looked around, trying to figure out what to do. All this house and only him. Truth be told, it was eerie living here alone. He didn’t know why he did it. He supposed it made him feel closer to Sirius and Remus and Dumbledore. It reminded him of everyone he’d lost. 

When he’d first moved in, Hermione and Ron had helped him do a deep clean of everything. But that was years ago now, and all the furniture was back to being unused and dusty. He didn’t have friends over a lot. Most of them were too busy. 

He should go out, but where? He didn’t feel like going to a club or a pub. He didn’t feel like doing much of anything. There was the cinema, but there was nothing out he wanted to see.

A few minutes later, he was on the street and headed for the nearest tourist hub. He liked London. He liked all the strangers. The crowds swallowed him up. There were countless pubs, mostly Muggle, but he didn’t want to drink. The whiskey had been enough.

He stumbled on a cinema. It wasn’t touristy. It was ancient and grimy and it played old timey films. He looked over its showings. _The Wizard of Oz_ started in five minutes. 

He’d seen that film once. It was on the telly when the Dursleys were out. He’d enjoyed it as a child. Perhaps he’d enjoy it as an adult.

Buying a ticket, he slipped inside, and nabbed a hotdog and chips. The theater was dark and surprisingly crowded. There were a few men dressed up as Dorothy. 

His shoulder still hurt. He suppressed a few grimaces as he ate his food and waited for the film to start. 

“Hello, Potter.”

Harry looked up and blinked. He blinked again. “Malfoy?”

Malfoy slid into the chair next to him. “Funny running into you here.”

“What?”

“I like Muggle films, too. Are you shocked?”

Harry wiped at his mouth. He was convinced he had a ketchup smear. “I don’t know.”

Malfoy gazed at him steadily. Harry couldn’t really see him, but it was weird. Malfoy’s presence _felt_ different. 

“What are you doing in London?” Harry asked, but the start of the film drowned out his words. 

They settled back to watch, and Malfoy forced Harry to share the armrest. This made their forearms touch, and Harry was immediately on edge. It had been months since he’d touched another man. _Months_.

Harry struggled paying attention to the film. It was charming and heartfelt, but his shoulder ached, and Malfoy seemed to be moving closer and closer. 

Halfway through, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up and knocked into Malfoy’s knees as he staggered into the aisle. In the lobby, he binned his rubbish, and glanced over his shoulder. Malfoy had followed him out. 

They stared at one another. Harry licked his lips. 

“Hello,” Malfoy said.

“Hello.” Harry let his eyes roam over Malfoy’s body, taking in his nice trousers and coiffed hair. There was something _elegant_ about his pale wrists. Harry wanted to take his fingers into his mouth.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. 

“I’ve never seen you here before,” Harry said.

“I heard you were dating Finch-Fletchley.”

“Why do you care?”

“I heard you broke up.”

Harry shrugged. “It wasn’t serious.”

Malfoy leered. “I never thought the _Chosen One_ would fancy a buggering.”

“Only sometimes.” Harry smiled and rubbed his mouth. Then he grimaced again. 

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

Malfoy stepped forward. “It’s your shoulder.”

“I’m _fine_.”

Malfoy touched his arm, then his shoulder. He was a little taller than Harry, and his gaze dropped to stare at Harry’s lips. 

Harry couldn’t believe it: Draco Malfoy was _flirting_ with him. And if that wasn’t strange enough, Harry _liked_ it.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” Harry said, and immediately regretted it.

Malfoy nodded slowly. “Yes, I do.”

They left the cinema and walked in silence to Grimmauld Place. Harry didn’t know what he was doing. 

Grimmauld Place was dark and silent when they stepped into the foyer. Harry waved his wand, wincing. Candles in the parlour came to life.

“Care for a drink?” They followed the light into the parlour.

“Not really.” Malfoy looked uncomfortable. 

“Maybe I should have warned you I live here?”

“It’s not a problem.”

Harry touched his shoulder. “I’m injured.”

Malfoy licked his lips. “I can heal you if you take off your shirt.”

They stared at one another. They both knew a healing spell could be cast through clothes.

“All right,” Harry said, and eased off his shirt. Malfoy’s eyes darkened. 

“Come here.” Malfoy’s voice was a little rough.

Harry stepped closer. Malfoy’s hand shook a little as he touched Harry’s chest, his neck. The injury was now mostly beneath Harry’s skin.

“You’ve always liked rushing into danger.”

“It’s my job.”

“Even at Hogwarts. You loved the attention.”

“I didn’t do it for the attention.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Not even a little?”

Harry tried shrugging, but he winced again. Malfoy dragged his wand over his shoulder, frowning in concentration. He muttered “_Exite Injuriam_” a few times.

Sighing in relief, Harry said, “Feels good.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

They looked at each other. Arousal was already pumping through Harry. He didn’t care that this was Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, former schoolboy rival. The man in front of him was _hot_, and Harry was desperate for a shag.

Harry smiled. “What are you doing these days?”

Malfoy turned his face away. “Nothing much.”

Harry frowned. He’d only asked conversationally, but now he was worried. “What do you do for a living? The reparations were … substantial.” 

“Nothing, Potter.”

“What do you do for a living?” Harry repeated.

Malfoy raised his chin. “Why do you want to know?”

“Why aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s none of your _business_.”

Harry crept closer. “See, most things _illegal_ are my business. Did you forget I was an Auror?”

“What are you now? A sad sod who’s desperate for a fuck?”

Harry’s eyes flashed. “We both know you are up to no good. It’s like sixth year all over. Tell me, who are you trying to curse this time?”

“Fuck you!” Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry.

Harry didn’t flinch. He’d stared down wands a thousand times. “I _dare_ you.”

Cursing, Malfoy pocketed his wand and stomped to the door. “I should never have come here.”

Harry leaned in his doorway. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy was halfway down his steps. He swerved around, his expression enraged. “What?”

“Are you really bent?”

Malfoy cocked his hip to the side, and smirked. “Oh, _honey_. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Harry caught his breath. He watched Malfoy disappear down the dark street. He would find out what Malfoy was hiding.

*

Malfoy missed his mum. She’d been dead two years, and he _missed_ her.

He lived at the Manor with his father, which was a disaster. They had no money, and the Manor was falling down around them. Malfoy liked seeing its destruction. He liked hearing all the Muggle-hating portraits snivel about _ruin_ and _lost heritage_.

His father was pathetic. He’d always been pathetic, Draco understood that now.

Secretly, Draco thought it should’ve been his father who died, not his mum, but he was still too loyal to turn his back on him. No matter what Lucius had done, how many people he’d murdered, he was still Draco’s _father_.

“Draco?” His father was in the study on the first level. They lived mostly on the first level now; it was a lot easier to keep it warm.

“Yes?” Draco struggled not to show his annoyance.

His father sat by the fire, surrounded by countless pieces of parchment and photographs of family members. His hair was completely white, and his face looked like cracked earth. 

“Where have you been?”

Draco’s shoulders became spiky. “None of your business, Father.”

His father squinted at him. “You are always hiding something from me. You told your mother everything, but me? I’m like Hippogriff shit to you.”

Draco didn’t say anything. He flopped down on a chaise, and sighed heavily. He tried not to think about Potter and his crystal ball. 

_Fuck_ Potter. He would always be Draco’s rival. He would always be so _stupid_. Potter had always seen the world in black and white, and he _still_ thought Draco was a criminal.

Draco wasn’t a criminal. He was a hustler. An entertainer. He did what he had to to survive. He didn’t _hurt_ people.

He glanced at his father. “What are you always writing?”

“Would you believe me if I said apology letters?”

“No.”

“You think the worst of me now.”

Draco shrugged, not disagreeing. He felt restless, moody. He wished he’d shagged Potter. That was the truth. They didn’t need to like or trust one another to swap come. Draco clenched his fist. He _hated_ that Potter got under his skin. He hated that he found the scarhead _attractive_.

“I’m going for a ride,” Draco said, and popped up from the chaise. He didn’t look behind him as he left the study and ventured to his bedroom next to the kitchen. There were only three elves left, and Draco felt a kinship with them. Like him, they stayed because of loyalty.

He grabbed his broom and went out into the darkness. He liked flying at night, when he couldn’t see the Manor or its fields; when it was just him and his broom and the cold air chapping his cheeks.

He soared high, his fingers quickly freezing, his thin jumper doing little to keep out the chill. 

He raced nothing. He practiced tricks. He remembered battling Potter, Slytherin against Gryffindor, and being so desperate to beat the tosser that he cried _a lot_ after every loss. 

Another truth: he’d wank after those crying sessions, mind filled with fantasies of beating Potter, of forcing him to _see_ that Draco was better, worthwhile, _fit_.

Potter had looked so damn good without his shirt on. He had the body of someone used to duels and sprinting. There had been scars, pink and rough. Draco had wanted to tongue his nipples. 

Sighing, Draco dropped back to the ground. There were clouds rolling in, dark fluff in the distance. 

He was knackered and he had work in the morning. He liked being a phoney fortune teller all right, but he didn’t want to do it for the rest of his life. He had plans. Sort of. He wanted to be a columnist; he wanted to tell people about themselves, give advice. He knew he’d be bloody good at it, and he wasn’t the worst writer in the world. 

Someone just needed to give him a chance.

*

On Monday, Harry was true to his word, and called in sick. He could feel Penelope’s eyeroll in her response: _Be back tomorrow. - PC_

He spent his morning in the Ministry archives, looking up any and all records of Malfoy. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much after the war trials, and Malfoy seemed to be keeping a low profile. Harry wasn’t convinced.

For lunch, he went to the _Witch’s Boils_, which was a pub in Knockturn Alley. He wore a disguise that the bartender knew, and he ordered a pint and a pasty, and chose a lone table in the corner.

The pub was crowded and noisy, and hags and goblins littered its wobbly tables. There was a Mummy next to the toilet.

The bartender approached, pint and pasty in hand. “Hello, sir.”

“Join me for a moment?” Harry pushed a chair out with his wand. 

“Oh, all right.” The bartender sat, and clasped his yellowing hands together. He was about a hundred years old, with hair like Dumbledore’s, and a blind pearly eye. 

Harry dug into the pasty, which was surprisingly good. He sipped his pint. “What do you know about Draco Malfoy?”

The bartender blinked. “Lucius’ son? I haven’t heard much.”

Harry made a show of savoring his pasty. “This is delicious. Do you make them yourself?”

“Of course not, sir. Got a boy in the back.”

Harry slid him a handful of Galleons. “What have you heard?”

Sliding the money into his pocket, the bartender thought for a moment. “I heard he’s tricking Muggles now. Pretending to be a magician.”

“What?”

“Strange, innit?” The bartender motioned with his arm. “He’s out in a carriage or something on the Thames, showing Muggles magic.”

Harry frowned. “Is it real magic?”

“I doubt it. He might be using some spells under the table, but he’s not the first wizard to make a living lying to ‘em idiots.”

“Do you know where I could find this carriage?”

The bartender fiddled with the money in his pocket. “I really couldn’t say.”

Grinning, Harry slipped him a few more Galleons.

“Everyone who does what he does is down where the tourists are. That’s all I can tell you.”

Harry looked at him closely. “Okay,” he said finally. “Thank you for your help.”

Harry finished his pasty, keeping his head down. When he left, he headed for Westminster Bridge. 

The day was bright and sunny, and Harry turned his face to the sky, hoping to soak up as much light as possible. There had been rain overnight, but it’d fled with the approach of dawn. 

At the bridge, he paused, not sure how to go about his search. There were definitely a lot of tourists, but the riverside was too crowded, too regulated, for a random wizard to set up a carriage. 

He strolled toward the London Eye. He liked living in the city. It was one of the reasons why he remained at Grimmauld Place. Its location couldn’t be beat. 

Once past the Eye, the wave of tourists thinned out a tad, and Harry took his time peering down cold alleys and around grimy corners. He stumbled down some rubbish-strewn steps, getting closer to the river’s edge. Then, as if protected by a spell, appeared a peddler's wagon.

He circled it quietly. It looked like something from the nineteenth century; it looked like something Dorothy would stumble upon before the big storm. 

He knocked, and waited. This close to the door, he could hear whispers coming from the inside. 

The door swung open, revealing Malfoy in a bloody _turban_. Malfoy saw him and turned a bright red.

“I’m in the middle of a reading, Potter,” barked Malfoy. “Come back never.” He slammed the door shut.

Harry blinked for a moment, then knocked again. 

“Merlin!” Malfoy said, and swung the door open again. “I’m with a _customer_.”

Harry tried to peer inside, but Malfoy stepped to the side to block his view. “How long do you think it will take?”

“The rest of your life.” Malfoy was glaring daggers. 

“Forty-five minutes? An hour?”

“Come back in two hours.” Malfoy slammed the door shut again.

Two hours. Harry could do that. He had some errands he had to run. He checked his watch. Tesco was just around the corner.

He strode back up the stairs, his mind on Malfoy’s long, long legs.

*

Draco couldn’t focus. Potter was set to return any moment now, and he was doing a shit job at telling his customer what they wanted to hear.

“We have to end it here, unfortunately,” Draco said.

The man looked crestfallen, but he nodded. “Thank you for the help.”

Draco managed a smile. “Yes, yes. Hope you come back soon!”

When the man had gone, Draco slumped against his door, his stomach twisting anxiously. He had to get ready! He tore off the turban and shot a few styling spells at his hair. He stood in front of his wardrobe mirror, inspecting his face.

He looked nervous and _sweaty_. He looked like he was hiding something.

“Bugger,” he muttered, and started at the knock on his door.

He settled in his ornate chair and crossed one leg over the other, hoping to look casual, almost bored. Then, with a lazy flick of his wand, opened the door.

Potter bumbled inside carrying Tesco bags. He grinned sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t have enough time to pop home.”

“You can Apparate and you didn’t have enough time?”

Shrugging, Potter set down his purchases and plopped down in the opposite chair. 

They stared at one another. Draco did his best not to flinch.

Potter dragged his gaze away. He looked at all of Draco’s props, his eyebrows raising. “Is this why you didn’t want to tell me where you worked?”

Now it was Draco’s turn to shrug, and he made sure it was a fluid, lazy thing. “I didn’t tell you because it was _none of your business_.”

“You’re scamming Muggles.”

“They aren’t all Muggles.”

“That’s even worse, in the eyes of the Ministry.”

Draco huffed. “I’m _helping_ them. I’m simply providing a service.”

“Do you pretend to talk to dead loved ones? Do you read palms and tell them their wisdom line says to give you more money?” 

“Sometimes.”

“Ridiculous.” Potter sounded disgusted. 

Draco refused to back down. He stared Potter down, a nasty smirk curling his mouth. “I tell them what they want to hear, and it makes them happy. I’m doing nothing wrong.”

Potter laughed humorlessly. “You are breaking at least five laws.”

Arching an eyebrow, Draco purred, “Are you going to arrest me?”

Potter’s eyes flashed. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “No, not yet.”

Draco leaned closer. “Why not?”

“Because I can understand why you are doing this. You need to support yourself. I doubt anyone in the wizarding world wants to hire you.”

Draco only barely hid his flinch. Potter was right, but Draco refused to admit it. “I do this because it makes me _money_. Loads and loads of money. People will pay you anything if they think you are talking to their dead child.”

Potter’s mouth thinned. He sat back, and all the heat had disappeared from his eyes. “You’re despicable.” 

“I do what I have to to survive.”

“You never mentioned survival.”

Draco gulped thickly. “I - the Manor. It needs a lot of repairs.”

“You could earn the money the right way.”

“My father -” Draco shook his head.

“Surely you’re not still blaming him for your mistakes?”

“_Piss off_.”

“You’re a grown man. You don’t need to do everything he wants, especially when it comes to breaking the law.”

“Potter, as someone who never knew his parents, you can shut the fuck up.”

They glared at one another. Potter was grinding his teeth.

“Tell me,” Draco said, because he was feeling utterly ruthless, “who took it up the arse, you or Finch-Fletchley?”

“Justin, mostly.”

“Is that why he left you? Because your cock just wasn’t good enough?”

Potter laughed; then licked his lips and held Draco’s gaze. “I’m a great shag, Malfoy. _Brilliant_.”

Draco scoffed. “_You_ a good fuck? Absolutely not.”

“Fine, don’t believe me. It’s not like you will ever find out.”

Faking a shudder, Draco began to speak, but his crystal ball caught his attention. It was flickering like before. It was blinking like a warning. 

Draco leaned down, staring intensely into the fog. 

“What is it?” Potter said.

Draco’s mouth dropped open. The fog had cleared, revealing Potter and him on a bed, and it looked like Draco’s bed at the Manor. Draco was riding him slowly, carefully, and Potter clutched his thighs and stared up at him like he was a god. 

“What do you see?” Potter sounded a touch alarmed.

Unable to speak, Draco continued to watch them fuck. It was mesmerising. Potter was just so damn fit and _big_. Draco was on top, but there was no question who really was in charge. 

In the ball, Potter started stroking him, and Draco threw his head back in ecstasy. 

Draco squeaked and fell out of his chair. Potter tried to help him up, but Draco pushed him away.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Okay,” Potter said, and took several steps back.

Draco was cracking up. “I - Merlin. You need to leave.” He smoothed a shaky hand over his forehead. “You need to leave right now.”

“What happened?” Potter had his wand in hand. 

“Nothing, nothing.” Draco stood shakily. “It was a mistake, a stupid mistake. I’m not very good, you know. Not very good at all.”

“Are you in danger?”

This made Draco laugh anxiously. “No, no. Don’t be absurd. Absolutely not.”

Potter didn’t look convinced. “I’m not going to leave you alone if you’re in danger.”

Draco tried to push past him to open the door, but Potter grabbed his arm. 

“You can trust me, Malfoy. If someone is trying to hurt you, even if it’s connected to something illegal, I will protect you.”

Draco nearly melted at the touch. He was a slag. A big, _desperate_ slag, and he was a second away from dropping to his knees for Potter. 

He yanked away. “Please - I can’t bear it.”

“Whatever it is -”

Draco opened the door and forced Potter out by the tip of his wand. Potter stumbled down the few steps, carrying his bags. 

“I’m coming back!” Potter said.

“I don’t care,” Draco said, and slammed the door shut. He slumped against it, gasping for air. He hadn’t a clue why his crystal ball was trying to _murder_ him.

*

Harry yawned loudly as he trudged sleepily through the Ministry atrium. It was nearly eight in the morning, and he hadn’t slept last night. Malfoy had plagued his thoughts.

He needed a break from the bloke in the catacombs, and intended to spend his work day looking up laws about performing magic in front of Muggles. He was sure _something_ in Malfoy’s act included magic.

“Look who decided to come to work,” said Penelope when he shouldered through the door of their office.

He missed working in DMLE and he was still getting used to the quiet chill of the Department of Mysteries. 

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll resign,” Harry said easily.

Penelope rolled her eyes. “There’s no update on our recent suspect.”

“I’m shocked.” He settled at his desk with a sigh and took out his stack of clean parchment. He would need to write a _ton_ of owls to get some clarity about the legal system. 

Penelope was watching him. “You were in the archives yesterday.”

Shrugging, he said, “Yeah, it’s a bit of a hobby.”

“Why were you looking up Draco Malfoy?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know, really. Just wanted to see if there was anything to find.”

“Misusing the archives is against the rules.”

“What are you going to do? Report me?”

“Perhaps.” She was still watching.

Sighing again, he said, “I have reason to believe Malfoy’s breaking secrecy laws. He’s working as a psychic, and he’s giving readings to Muggles.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“I didn’t say it was important. I said it was a _hobby_.”

“Spying on Draco Malfoy is a hobby for you?”

“I wasn’t spying.”

She raised both eyebrows.

“Okay, fine. I was doing a bit of spying.”

“We aren’t paying you to track down infatuations.”

He opened and closed his mouth. He wanted to deny his infatuation, but he knew it was true. He’d been smitten since he laid eyes on Malfoy at the cinema. There was just something _fishy_ about what Malfoy was doing, and he wanted a good reason to _stop_ being infatuated.

He stood abruptly. “I need to do some solo work today.” He’d changed his plans.

“Outside the Ministry? Perhaps stalking a blond Slytherin?”

Harry glared, but he couldn’t deny it. “I’ll report back what I find.” 

“I expect you to work a weekend after this!” she called after him.

Outside the day was dreary. Everything looked grey and muted. Harry rushed back to Malfoy’s wagon. He cast an invisibility charm as he approached. 

He waited near the door. He could hear voices inside and knew Malfoy was with a customer. A few minutes later, Malfoy emerged with a hag at his side.

“Trust your instinct,” Malfoy said as he helped the hag down the steps.

“I will!” the hag piped.

Once the hag was gone, Malfoy put away his turban and locked up his wagon. He strolled down the Thames, weaving around tourists and exercising Muggles. Harry followed at some distance.

Malfoy came to a stop at a small shop. The shop had pink velvet curtains and a pirate’s hat in the window. The shop was called _Collins’ Costume Collection_. Malfoy went inside and Harry slipped in before the door shut.

Was this where Malfoy did _more_ illegal activity? 

The shop was dark but filled with colorful clothing. There were scarves and hats and cloaks. There were rhinestoned berets and tie-dye vests. There was a white cat asleep on the counter.

Malfoy scratched the cat’s ears. “Hello, Wilma. Just here to check out your new hats.”

The cat purred and blinked its eyes. 

As quietly as he could, Harry followed Malfoy to the back of the shop where an enormous gilded mirror greeted them. Malfoy waved his wand and an assortment of hats soared onto a shelf next to the mirror. Harry had to duck so one didn’t hit him.

There were a few customers around, but Harry couldn’t see their faces.

The first hat Malfoy tried was a golden Eygptian headdress. Malfoy inspected himself from the front, side, and back, a small frown curling his thin lips. He shook his head and removed the headdress.

Next came a beaver felt hat with a gigantic black feather. He pulled the hat low on his forehead, almost hiding his eyes. He seemed to like this hat more, and he spent several minutes talking to himself and gesturing theatrically. 

Harry was so enthralled that he let his charm weaken, then end altogether. Two things happened at once. Malfoy spotted him in the mirror, his eyes widening, and someone to the left shot a curse at Harry. He felt the hot magic streak past his face. 

“That way!” Malfoy cried, still wearing the historical hat. 

Wand in hand, Harry raced toward the person who’d tried to curse him. They ran together, he and Malfoy. Harry didn’t have much time to question this; all his attention was going to avoiding the curses hurtling his way.

It was a boy who was attacking Harry. He had hair exactly like the boy in Penelope’s case file, the same boy Harry had been pursuing in the catacombs. 

“Fuck,” Harry said, and ran faster. Somehow he’d stumbled on their suspect. They were in a dark corridor, and another curse came from the right. Harry knew instantly he was going to be hit. He yelled “_Protego Maxima!_” and dived sideways, but Malfoy stepped in front of him to shield him.

Malfoy crumbled to the floor. Harry didn’t stop to help him. Harry was going to arrest this arsehole for harming him. 

The suspect burst into a shadowy alleyway, panting and throwing curses, but Harry had a trick up his sleeve. He loved it when suspects cornered themselves in alleyways. 

“_Obstructionum Exitus!_” 

The suspect bounced off the exit of the alleyway, and Harry quickly conjured ropes. Once the suspect was tied up, Harry sent his Patronus for back up and rushed inside to check on Malfoy.

Malfoy leaned against the wall. He looked shaken but not terribly injured.

“Just a Stunner,” Malfoy gasped. 

Harry crouched beside him. “You’re still wearing that stupid hat.”

Malfoy gazed at him for a moment before kissing him. Harry jerked back in surprise. 

“You can trust me,” Malfoy said.

“I know.” Harry was blushing.

“I want you.”

Harry took off his hat. He touched his fine blond hair. “I think you’re gorgeous.”

“You think?”

Harry gulped a few times. He was about to kiss Malfoy back when the alleyway door burst open. It was Penelope and Robards. 

“You’re finally earning your pay in your new department,” Robards said.

“Well done, Harry.” Penelope beamed. 

Malfoy stood effortlessly. Robards caught sight of him and his eyes narrowed. 

“What the bloody hell is Draco Malfoy doing here?” Robards said. 

“I was just shopping.” Malfoy held up the hat. “My wardrobe is a touch _adventurous_.” 

Harry rummaged in his pockets for quite a while. He finally produced a tiny vial. He pulled out a few strings of memory and dropped them into the vial. 

“This should suffice for now,” Harry said, and handed the vial to Penelope.

“You still got paperwork,” she said. 

“Later.” He took Malfoy by the shoulder and guided him from the shop. The white cat was still on the counter, entirely unimpressed about what had just occurred.

“You’re breaking protocol!” Robards yelled.

“Fire me!” Harry was grinning. 

“Do you really want to be sacked?” Malfoy said once they were on the street.

Harry pushed him against the wall, not hard. He kissed Malfoy, and it was a delight to see Malfoy’s eyes go wide right before their lips met.

“No, I don’t want to be sacked,” Harry said when they pulled away. Malfoy was pink all over and his eyes glittered. 

“Come back to the Manor with me,” Malfoy said. “I want you to fuck me on my childhood bed.”

Harry’s eyebrows went up. “That’s a very specific request.”

“It was a very specific vision.”

“What?”

Malfoy grabbed his hand and walked him to another quiet alley. He wrapped his arms around Harry and whispered, “I want to suck your cock.”

Harry sputtered, entirely too aroused too quickly, but Malfoy spun them and they Disapparated. 

They landed in Malfoy’s bedroom, which was nothing like Harry had imagined. Malfoy was on him, pawing at him and trying to kiss him, but Harry held him off. He wanted to look around. 

“This doesn’t look like a bedroom.” It looked like an old lounge, with dusty books and faded carpets. The enormous bed blocked most of the only window.

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth. He was blushing. “It’s my new bedroom. We don’t use the upper levels anymore.”

“Why not?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Reparations.”

For some strange reason, Harry wanted to apologise. “Is that why you became a fake fortune teller?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Malfoy hitched a shoulder.

Harry grabbed the broom in the corner. “I remember this.”

“It was never good enough to beat you.”

“Do you have another? We could go flying.”

Malfoy hesitated. “My father might be home.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t fancy running into _him_.

“But . . . maybe we could sneak out through the kitchen. The elves would love to see you.”

“You still got elves?”

“Some stayed.”

“And your mother?”

A shadow came over Malfoy’s face. “You don’t remember?”

“I’m sorry . . . I forgot.” Harry felt terrible.

Malfoy shook his head. “I suppose she didn’t mean much to you. It makes sense that you’d forget.”

Harry stepped closer. He touched Malfoy’s cheek. “Are you sure you’re not involved with that boy back in the shop? The coincidence is … weird.”

“Oh, shut up,” Malfoy growled, and walked him back until his legs hit the bed. Malfoy pushed him and Harry landed on his back. “I want you to fuck me before I change my mind.”

Harry helped him undress. A few rose petals fell out of his pockets and Harry raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s my fetish,” Malfoy said, and kissed him.

Harry drew his hands up and down his long, bare back. Malfoy sat up, now only wearing his trousers. His chest was all red from the Stunner.

“This looks painful.” Harry kissed his chest soothingly. 

“I have the Dark Mark.” Malfoy showed his forearm. Without thinking, Harry kissed it, too. The Mark was burned away, leaving a scarred mess. Malfoy moaned and rubbed himself through his trousers as Harry followed the outline of each scar with his tongue. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

Harry grinned. “You’ve already said that.”

“Now. I want you right now.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispered. He’d been painfully hard since he landed on this bed. 

They got the rest of their clothes off. Malfoy’s eyes were dark and lidded as he took in Harry’s nudity. 

“You bloody stupid _prick_.” Malfoy took him in his hand, stroking him, weighing him. “How dare you be this fit.”

Harry bit his lip. It’d been so damn long since someone touched him.

“This cock is so big … I don’t even know how it’s going to fit.”

“Stop lying.”

“I’m not.” Malfoy muttered a few spells. Reaching back, he lined Harry up and slowly worked him inside his body.

Harry cried out and flung his head back. He’d expected more foreplay, more kissing. Fuck, fuck. His toes curled, his thighs stiffened. He held on and tried not to come too quickly. 

“Yeah?” Malfoy said once he was fully inside. 

“Jesus.”

Malfoy looked delighted. “Say that again. I’ve always wanted to fuck a Muggle.”

Harry barely heard him. He gritted his teeth and grabbed Malfoy’s waist. “Ride me. I want you to fuck yourself -”

Malfoy rose slowly, _deliciously_, and sat back down. Harry shook. It’d been too long since he was inside another man. He already felt his bollocks growing tight.

“You’re going to make me come,” Harry moaned.

Pouting, Malfoy said, “Already?” 

“Fuck you,” Harry said, and thrust with all his might. Malfoy threw his head back and cried out. Harry stroked his pretty cock. “Yeah?”

“Potter,” Malfoy moaned. 

Harry quickened his stroking. Malfoy gushed precome, and it made it nice and wet. “Say my first name.”

Malfoy rode him faster, bouncing a little as his arse opened up. His thighs and neck were streaked with pink and his nipples were pebbled. 

“Oh, Harry.”

“Are you going to come for me?” Harry wasn’t sure if he could hold on any longer. 

Malfoy’s head dropped forward. “Maybe,” he whispered, his eyes dazed.

“I can’t - _fuck_.”

“Yeah, come inside me,” Malfoy said softly. “Fill me up.”

Harry came, his whole body buzzing with it, and Malfoy clenched hard, too hard. Harry cried out, riding the wave of orgasm, and he was aware that Malfoy was coming too, his hand a blur on his own cock. 

When it was all over, Harry wrapped his arms around Malfoy and buried his nose in his hair. 

“I hope we weren’t too loud,” Malfoy muttered sleepily.

_Fuck him_, Harry thought. Malfoy smelled really good. 

“I saw this in my crystal ball.”

“You and me shagging?”

“Yeah.”

“What a fortune.”

Malfoy laughed a little and snuggled closer. “Do you care that I’m a fortune teller? Because I don’t think I could give it up. Not yet.”

“Just get rid of the bloody turbans, you insensitive twat.”

Malfoy kissed his shoulder, smiling a little. “Okay.”

*

****

**One Year Later**

The day of his interview with the _Prophet_, Draco woke up early and crept down the cold steps to brew coffee. Grimmauld Place was cleaner now, warmer, and Draco spent most of his time here.

“Hello,” Harry said from the doorway. 

“Your hair is a disaster. Want some coffee?”

“You love it.” Harry grabbed two cups and set them on the counter. Draco liked it when he did things like a Muggle.

They drank their coffee and watched the sun come up from the charmed window. 

“You’re going to do great,” Harry said.

“I’m probably going to sick up the moment I sit down in their fancy chair.”

“The _Prophet_ doesn’t have fancy chairs.”

“Right.” Draco frowned. “That’s why they are interviewing me.”

“They’re interviewing you because you’re entertaining and your advice is good.”

Draco sighed and didn’t say anything. “I never thought I’d be a columnist.”

“You also never thought you’d be a fortune teller, but you made it work.”

“I survived.” 

“Yes.” Harry kissed him on the temple. 

“I’m going to miss my wagon. I’m going to miss the Thames.”

“Set up your wagon here. We can have tea in it. The Thames will wait for you.”

Draco laughed. “Great idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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